


devotion

by TigerMoon



Series: family is a four-letter word [9]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Body Worship, Declarations Of Love, Gay Sex, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, these two love each other and you can't tell me otherwise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 14:16:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9903404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerMoon/pseuds/TigerMoon
Summary: Qrow’s mouth goes dry. (He’ll never admit how much he’s dreamed of this, but given the look in those amber eyes, he doesn’t think he has to.) “Just… how much control are we talking here, Oz?”Ozpin takes a deep breath. “Anything you want, Qrow.” Then, softer: “I trust you.”(Trust is not something Ozpin gives lightly, but with Qrow, it is something he can give completely.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place the night before the fall of Beacon. There are callbacks in here to events mentioned in "secrets we shared in the dark," but that doesn't have to be read in order to enjoy this.
> 
> These boys will be the death of me, I swear.
> 
> Dedicated to Moon, who I dare say loves these nerds almost as much as I do. Happy Birthday!

 

“You wanted to see me?”

 

The headmaster’s office is dark, this late at night; the windows are shaded, letting the moonlight in but darkened enough to prevent prying eyes from seeing in. Not that many normally could, this high up, but Ironwood and his tin army are circling the skies in his toy airships and Qrow knows how much Ozpin hates the invasion of his privacy. Ozpin himself is standing at his desk, back to the elevator, solemn as always save for the tense line of his shoulders. He’s foregone his jacket and vest and even his shoes, a lack of formality wholly unusual for him. “Do you remember our first Vytal festival together, Qrow?” Ozpin asks, still gazing out the window.

 

“Port and Oobleck’s wedding,” Qrow replies, stepping up beside him. “I was so jealous of them. They had everything they wanted… took me a little more liquid courage to come up here and try to get the same.”

 

“You were drunk when you kissed me.” His platinum hair glows in the light, a halo about him. “You were drunk and you tasted like swill and I refused to accept the gesture until you sobered up.” A distant smile plays on his lips, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You came back the very next day, hangover and all, to do it right.”

 

Qrow chuckles. “Aren’t you glad I did?”

 

“Yes.” Ozpin turns to him and lays his hands on Qrow’s chest. “I’ve never been more glad of anything in my life.” And he leans forward, Qrow reaching up just as eagerly, to meet in a slow, lingering kiss. There’s no hurry, here, just the press of lips to lips and when one breathes out the other breathes in, perfect harmony. It’s hard not to move in unison, after almost ten years of intimacy. Slow and gentle kisses give way to nips of teeth and tongue, and Ozpin breaks away to nuzzle the crook of Qrow’s throat.

 

“What’s the occasion?” Qrow asks once he regains his voice.

 

Kiss-damp lips press against the pulse-point of his throat. “You know I… I have issues, regarding control,” Ozpin begins.

 

Qrow rubs his cheek against his lover’s head, arms tangled loosely around his waist. There are things Ozpin cannot do, even after all this time and all the trust they have built between them. Intimacy is, by necessity, something to be negotiated and planned; a wrong move risks awakening the spectre of the past and the demons that lay in the dark of the headmaster’s memory. It’s a tightrope walk, some nights, and progress is slow and frustrating at times, but he has never regretted his choice once. “Yeah?” he says. “Is something wrong? Do I need to step back a bit?”

 

“No. I-” Sighing, he leans back to look his younger lover in the eye. “I’ve been afraid of a lot of things in my life, Qrow,” he begins again, running his hands up and down Qrow’s arms. “I still am. And I grow weary of letting that fear dictate my choices. You give, and you give, and you indulge me in my fears and my demands so often. So… if you’re willing….” He licks his lips, a sure tell of how nervous he truly is. “I want to give you control, tonight.”

 

Qrow’s mouth goes dry. (He’ll never admit how much he’s dreamed of this, how many times he’s brought himself off to the very idea, but given the look in those amber eyes, he doesn’t think he has to.) “Just… how _much_ control are we talking here, Oz?”

 

Ozpin takes a deep breath. “Anything you want, Qrow.” Then, softer: “I trust you.”

 

“...okay.” He swallows and smooths his hands down the other’s slim hips. “Okay.”

 

This time, their kiss is rough and frantic, open-mouthed and panting, and when Ozpin parts his lips Qrow slides his tongue between them to tease. It’s a heady combination of tastes, coffee and whiskey and the underlying sweetness of skin. Ozpin shivers; Qrow sighs into his mouth. “Take off your clothes,” he mumbles against his lips. “Right here. Right now. Give me a little show.”

 

“In my office?” A bemused look crosses his face, but Ozpin complies, giving Qrow one last quick kiss before stepping back. It’s a show he gives, slowly pulling his cowlneck sweater off and to the side before lowering his eyes coquettishly and unfastening his belt. The slacks pool at his feet with a push, and he steps one long leg at a time out of them. Long fingers hook into his socks, pulling them off and tossing them aside. Once he’s down to his boxer briefs, he pauses; at Qrow’s nod, he takes a deep breath and pulls those off too, the black silk embroidered with cogs at the leg, letting the fabric slide away to leave him fully exposed.

 

Over the years, Qrow has mapped out the topography of Ozpin’s body with his hands and mouth and tongue. He knows the rise of every muscle, the dip of every crevice, the shallows and scars, like the back of his hand. Still, he stares – he will always stare – the creamy, too-pale skin that glows under the moonlight, freckled shoulders and knobby knees and slim hips with a thatch of fine silver hair between that runs up to his navel in a thin line. His skin is crimson in certain places, washed over and over till raw, a certain sign the stress is beginning to overwhelm him.

 

To Qrow, he is beautiful.

 

Ozpin doesn’t look up, though, and he knows why.

 

(Atop that perfect skin lies scars, so many scars – stripes across his back, the touch of the belt or worse that had lain his flesh open bare. Claw marks on his chest, where those who called him son had taken their hands to him. All down the length of his torso, hidden in the juncture of his thighs, that most intimate of places, lay deep circular pits – scars where someone had, in times past, held cigars to his skin till it burned. The mark of teeth along his hip, ancient and blurred. Shame is writ upon his skin, his soul, and Qrow has been slowly rewriting that bitter narrative.)

 

Qrow reaches out and takes hold of Ozpin’s hand. “Come here,” he demands, pulling his hand until he follows him, stumbling, over to the expansive glass window that looks down over Beacon Academy’s grounds.

 

“Qrow…?”

 

“Look at yourself.” He stands his lover in front of the glass, where he can see himself – his entire reflection, from head to toe – and shakes him by the shoulders when he hesitates. “Oz, _look_ at yourself. What do you see?”

 

“… sins,” comes the answer, hesitant and pained. Ozpin touches his lower belly, his trembling fingers ghosting over a line of burn scars where they trail down through the line of hair and lower still. “I see my sins. All the times I was too weak and foolish to protect myself. I look at myself and I know… I _know_ I am not supposed to blame myself for this. Many days I don’t, not anymore. But right now… I failed, Qrow. I deserved this. And if I was so weak to let this happen to myself, then... how can I hope to protect my students? The world?”

 

Qrow kisses the nape of Ozpin’s neck. “Do you know what I see when I look at you?” he asks gently, wrapping his arms around him from behind.

 

Ozpin shakes his head and leans up against him for strength.

 

“I see a survivor,” the younger man says, his calloused hands smoothing down over the scarred expanse of his stomach. “I see someone who is flawed. He’s too damn stubborn for his own good, and he’s terrible at taking care of himself. He’s controlling, and secretive, and sometimes he’s kind of a hypocrite.” There’s the faintest bit of hurt in those dark amber eyes, a flash of confusion, and Qrow kisses the shell of Ozpin’s ear. “I also see someone who cares, too much, about this world and everyone in it. Someone who’s willing to sacrifice everything he is and everything he has for people who will never know how much pain he has gone through to keep them safe.”

 

“Qrow,” he sighs, as the other’s fingers trail his body. One hand trails up over his chest, pulling him closer in; fingers graze over a dusky nipple and he breathes in hard through his teeth.

 

“I look at your scars, Oz,” he continues, “and I am amazed that you are here, with me, like this. Do you realize how _strong_ you are? I couldn’t survive the hell inside your head, but you are still fighting, and you let me in. You haven’t let them break you. You are so fucking _strong_ , Oz, and every time I look at you all I see is the man I fell in love with all those years ago.” Qrow nuzzles the back of his jaw, takes hold of his hand when Ozpin clutches at him. “You are the most beautiful man in the world, Oz. I am not leaving tonight until you see it too.”

 

Ozpin turns in his grasp, pressed between him and the cold glass of the window. His eyes are wide and liquid, soft with the love of ages. “Then show me,” he whispers, cupping Qrow’s face in his hands. “Tell me what to do, Qrow. Show me.”

 

Qrow kisses him, on lips and jaw, before trailing his lips lower. Kisses to the tops of his shoulders, to the jagged scars on his chest; a nip of his lips on dusky flesh has Ozpin breathing raggedly before he drags his teeth over. The sharp whine is more than reward enough when he closes his lips over his nipple and roughly tongues the pebbled flesh. There are scars below it, cigarette burns, and he drags his mouth over them down, down to the cusp of his navel, where he licks a ring around the skin. “Qrow,” Ozpin whispers, his hand tangling in the bird’s nest of hair.

 

He gets to one knee in response, takes hold of those slim hips in one calloused hand, and noses a line through the fine hair from navel to _there_ , heavy flesh and musk. “Gods, you’re gorgeous,” Qrow murmurs, kissing over the worst of the scars marring his length and feeling him twitch under the touches. Here he is all clean skin and soap and musk, and he breathes deep before parting his lips.

 

“Oh gods,” whimpers Ozpin.

 

Oz is hot and heavy and full upon his tongue. His hips tremble under Qrow’s fingers and he hums, letting the shaft slide along his tongue. Above him, Ozpin makes a very soft, very needy little noise. Qrow smirks around his mouthful and pulls back to lick the oversensitive head. “Beautiful,” he says, cupping his other hand around him and lifting so he can trace lines up and down the length of him from base to tip and back, sucking hard at the side. The flesh twitches and hardens even more under his touch. “Gods, you’re beautiful, Oz.”

 

“ _Please_ ,” Ozpin begs. His face is flushed red, pupils blown and fingers scrabbling against the glass for purchase. It’s fascinating to watch, because he’s not in control at all, but at Qrow’ mercy; he reaches for Qrow’s hair, pulls back, then grasps hold of it and pulls. Qrow shivers; he’s aching himself, now, straining at his slacks, but his needs can wait a moment.

 

Especially since Ozpin is beginning to unravel under his touch.

 

Qrow leans forward again, stroking his fingers over him until drops of precum bead up on the tip of his arousal. His tongue darts out, licking the bitterness away, before taking him in again. This time Ozpin actually sobs, a choked noise he can’t suppress as Qrow swallows around him, wraps his tongue around him and suckles. Slow at first, the harder, sinking down till his nose bumps into the wiry grey hair, a back-and-forth slide that makes his knees tremble. The bittersweet taste rushes up again, Ozpin tensing under him, and just as the man’s taut abdomen draws tight and he begins to shake Qrow stops and pulls away again.

 

Ozpin _whines_ in utter frustration, his head falling back to knock against the cold glass. “Qrow, please,” he begs, but the other is already getting to his feet.

 

“You have lube?” Qrow asks, licking saliva and precum from his lips.

 

“Bottom drawer of the desk,” he manages.

 

“Mmm.” He touches the smoothness of the older man’s jaw, catches the side of his lips in a soft kiss. This next request is a risk, a calculated one – Ozpin said he had control, he had anything, but this is asking for what he’s never been given before. “I want you to lay down for me, Oz.”

 

Crimson eyes meet amber, and for the first time this evening there is fear in the headmaster’s gaze.

 

(Qrow has made love to Ozpin before, of course, but never like this. This has always been forbidden – Ozpin cannot tolerate the feeling of being pinned down, of being trapped beneath another. It’s too reminiscent of the days when he was very small, when breath and choice and innocence were torn from him.)

 

“It’s okay to say no,” Qrow adds softly.

 

He closes his eyes, long grey lashes fanning out over his cheek, and swallows hard. His Adam’s apple bobs with the motion. “I trust you,” he finally says, opening his eyes again.

 

Qrow takes his hand and helps him stretch out onto the lush carpet. Ozpin reclines back, resting on his elbows, watching as he rummages around in his desk for the promised items. They’re tucked away well. A small bottle of lubricant, a foil packet he tosses to the floor at his lover’s feet. A shadow passes by, one of Ironwood’s ships, and Qrow flashes a feral grin before tossing his shirt off over his head. “I wish that smug bastard could see us now,” he muses.

 

Ozpin grimaces. “I don’t know why,” he says, reaching up and unfastening Qrow’s slacks.

 

He slides out of his pants and kicks them aside. He’s quite naked underneath; Ozpin slides his hands over Qrow’s powerful thighs, lays his head against the swell of his hip, and Qrow forgets all about Ironwood and the outside world. “Let me,”he breathes against the hot flesh, but it is a request, and Qrow nods approval with an indrawn breath as Ozpin takes hold of his arousal and strokes. He’s already opened the condom packet; it takes just a kiss to the side and a firm, practiced stroke to roll the rubber over him.

 

He kneels down and swipes his tongue against the other’s lips. “Lay back, Oz,” he commands. “Lay back and look at me. I want you to watch every moment.”

 

Ozpin sinks back into the floor, his eyes dark and legs akimbo as Qrow kneels between them. He’s gone half-soft, the heady arousal fading in the face of his nervousness; the younger man nuzzles the side of him, sighs hot breath over his length, and he shivers in pleasure. There’s a wet sound, and Qrow brings up fingers slicked with lube. “Here we go,” he murmurs against his length.

 

He’s tight – too tight – and Ozpin winces in pain as the one finger slides ever-so-slowly into him. “Relax, Oz,” Qrow soothes, waiting for him to breathe. “Relax. I’ve got you.”The finger twists, thrusts in deeper, curls, and he relaxes enough for him to ease in a second digit. This has always been the difficult part, getting him to relax, but experience has taught him how to move and when and what to do to take his mind off the discomfort and onto the promised pleasure.

 

Ozpin’s eyes are bright in the shadows as Qrow moves up over him, his fingers curling within to stroke upward. “Just like that,” Qrow sighs as he arches under him. His lips find the sensitive spots on his marred chest, suckling and biting as he scissors his fingers. Each brush of his fingers up draws shivers up his spine. A breathy moan escapes him at a particularly rough thrust, and Qrow lifts his head to look at him.

 

“Are you ready?”

 

His hands rake up Qrow’s arms. Ozpin is beautiful, splayed out and vulnerable under Qrow’s hand; the moonlight washes out his scars and makes him look almost whole, save for the beads of sweat shimmering over his flushed chest. “Yes,” Ozpin breathes, and while there are still tiny sparks of fear lingering behind his eyes there is also a trust so deep it makes Qrow’s heart swell.

 

It’s easy, then, easier than Qrow expected, Ozpin’s long legs wrapping around him as he presses slowly into that tight heat. The headmaster inhales as the younger man leans forward, covering his lips with his own as he sinks down to the hilt – holding there to let him adjust to being stretched so fully. He arches his back up and Qrow pulls back before thrusting back in, roughly, and oh, the cry that escapes Ozpin’s lips is magic.

 

They don’t need words to communicate. Each touch says everything, each sigh, each look. Ozpin’s fingernails dig red furrows into Qrow’s shoulders as he bucks up just right into the tightness and heat. Ragged breaths punctuate the quiet and the steady tick-tock that echoes in the office. Qrow slides within him, slow and steady, and mouths crimson circles along the side of Ozpin’s throat. His is a weight that comforts, his touch a reminder of home. “Qrow,” he sighs, rising to meet him.

 

“I’ve got you, Oz.” There’s steady desperation in their movement, growing with each thrust; Ozpin moans and Qrow grips his hips, thrusts up hard and fast within him. Sliding, slick, sweat sheening bright across their bodies as they move in unison. The older man is aching, dripping, hard and desperate between them; he’s reduces to nothing but wordless babble and the repeat of his lover’s name, all his erudition and elegance forgotten in this, desperate need. A calloused, tanned hand wraps around him - “ _Qrow!_ ” - and he strokes him in time with the thrusts. He whines, clutches at him, bites his shoulder to muffle a vulgar curse.

 

“Come for me,” Qrow whispers. His fingers stroke over the length of him, and Ozpin falls back against the floor. Another rough thrust upward, two, his fingers stroking hard, and he spills over white with a piercing cry.

 

“ _Qrow, oh gods,_ _ **Qrow**_ _-_ ”

 

Qrow doesn’t stop there – Ozpin draws tight, painfully tight, around him, and he rides him through the orgasm. Each frantic short thrust into him draws curses from Qrow’s mouth, need pooling tight and warm in his lower belly. Ozpin wraps his arms around his shoulders. “I love you,” he whispers, and closes his teeth against the shell of his ear.

 

“ _Oz-_ ” The cry tears out of him, his orgasm a hot white lance of ecstasy that blacks out his vision. His hands grip Ozpin’s hips hard enough to bruise, snapped in to the hilt and pulsing, his head on the other’s shoulder as he rides it out. Soft hands stroke the sweat from his back, rub away the tension as the last of the pleasure ripples through him, and he collapses atop his lover in a boneless heap.

 

They lay there like that for what seems like hours, but is probably no more than a few minutes, catching their breath.

 

Qrow is the first to move; the longer they lay like that the more tense Ozpin grows, and it is easy enough to shift so that he only has an arm and leg sprawled over him. (He does have to pull out, though, and there’s a hiss there as he slides out of now-tender flesh.) “Are you okay?”he asks as he relaxes again.

 

“I’m fine,” His eyes are hazy with pleasure; Ozpin turns to him and curls so that his head is resting up against Qrow’s shoulder. One hand traces the line of the young Huntsman’s bicep, down to interlace their hands together. His slender fingers fit perfectly between the more calloused ones, tanned skin and pale.

 

“… I love you, Oz,” Qrow murmurs, and to hear those words from his lips is so very rare. Speaking them means being vulnerable, and neither of them is comfortable with opening their hearts that far. Here, though, in the sleepy moonlight, they are both laid bare to the soul, unable to hide. He sighs, soft crimson eyes scanning the man beside him. “Do you see it?” he asks, his voice hoarse. “Do you see what I see when I look at you?”

 

Ozpin looks back up at him, his amber eyes soft and liquid in the moonlight. A smile, small and heartbreaking in its beauty, crosses his lips as his fingers trace Qrow’s jaw; and there is nothing but love in the gesture. “I think I’m beginning to,” he says.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a review, even if you hated it!


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